


They Shall Endure

by Plisuu



Series: Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Divergence, Former Templar inquisitor, Formerly Tranquil Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Templar Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Tranquil Inquisitor (Dragon Age), no betas we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24364531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plisuu/pseuds/Plisuu
Summary: The Herald was delivered from the breach by the hands of Andraste herself. He was the destined savior of the faithful, in shining templar armor, sent to them in their time of need.The truth of Connor Trevelyan was far more complicated, and the bright brand of the Chantry sunburst upon his forehead offered no answers.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan, Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Solas/Trevelyan (Dragon Age)
Series: Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1365559
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to yet another re-telling of Inquisition! This will be a long ride of minor canon-divergence with some fix-it-fic qualities, but I aim to stay as canon-friendly as possible while pushing the limits of the lore we're given. We're in for a very long slow burn, with a bunch of minor pairings and no real romance for a while. 
> 
> This is my first attempt at a long-fic, and I hope you enjoy~

Connor awoke to a stabbing pain in his hand. His entire body felt heavy, burdened with some unknown power that coursed through his veins. He shuddered and convulsed as another burst of energy surged through him from the glowing mark on his palm and let out a sort of strangled sound, suddenly engulfed by shock, trying to comprehend the sheer amount of pain that set every single one of his nerves ablaze. Another cry escaped him and he lurched forward, trying to clutch his hand against his chest only to be met with the resistance of cold iron. The tears were hot on his cheeks as he sobbed uncontrollably, thrashing against his restraints. He managed to glimpse a pale figure in front of him through his blurred vision and could see the movement of lips, but couldn’t hear anything but his own heartbeat roaring in his ears… Or was that his yelling? 

Memories came back to him in bits and pieces. Traveling to Haven, then to the conclave. Wyston was with him, but had vanished when Connor spotted his sister and then, nothing. Being chased, running for his life, and… A woman? Where was his sword? Where was his armor? Another wave of panic filled his mind. He had so many questions but none of his thoughts were coherent. Things had been so clear before, so silent. Now, it felt like his mind was on the brink of exploding. If only he could pin one thought down, maybe he could figure something out, but he couldn’t focus. Fresh pain pushed it’s way to the forefront of his mind as he realized he had rubbed his wrists raw, and then he was cry ing with joy, his body heaving with effort as he  _ felt _ . Maker, he hadn’t felt in so long, but it was so much at once.  _ Too much,  _ he realized, joy and relief and laughter turning to hysterics in seconds, and he howled in distress, struggling again to escape. Everything felt too small, too cramped. He felt like he was suffocating in his own skin, and doubled over to let his face rest on the cool stone floor in search of some reprieve.

He didn’t know how long he stayed that way, sucking in as much air as he could muster with each shaky breath. 

A familiar feeling pulled him from his unfocused, swirling thoughts. He suddenly felt as if he hadn’t had a drink of water in ages, and he struggled to swallow through the dryness of his throat with much difficulty. His body was heavy and every beat of his racing heart was too loud, increasing the pressure of a headache building behind his eyes. His head felt like it was going to burst for an entirely new reason than before. A whimper escaped him as he felt a hand brush across his own, though he couldn’t bring himself to look up. 

_ I need Lyrium _ , he tried to say, but no sound made it out of his damaged throat past the abuse it had suffered as a result of his earlier screaming. He licked his lips and tried to swallow. “Please,” he managed to croak, choking back a fresh wave of tears as the sound of his own pathetic voice. A soft murmur responded to him as slender fingers danced over the sickly green mark on his palm. He tried to pull back as a jolt of pain traveled up his arm, but was held in place by sheer exhaustion. 

The pain slowly ebbed away into a pleasant numbness, and Connor felt himself sliding back into the crystal-clear silence that he had grown accustomed to over the last few months.   


* * *

Leliana had noticed the mark immediately, just barely visible under the fringe of their prisoner’s hair — Cassandra took longer. She shouted and threatened, frustrated at his lack of useful response, trying to intimidate an answer out of him. It wasn’t until she grabbed the man by the scruff of his collar that she saw as his hair shifted to reveal the sunburst of the Chantry, red and stark against his pale, freckled skin. 

“I cannot recall all that took place at the temple, nor explain the mark on my hand.” The brand on his forehead caught the dim light of the prison as he shifted in her grip, and he spoke again after what seemed to be a moment of contemplation. “It causes me discomfort, however, and would prefer it gone.” 

“You... I see,” Cassandra finally said, releasing him and dropping her hands to her side. It was disheartening. This man was the only thing remaining of the Conclave, their last living witness of what could have possibly rendered the sky in two and killed the Divine. He was their only hope of closing the breach, and he lacked the ability to sympathize, to grasp the full state of despair of the people whose lives had been shattered, or to mourn the ones lost. The rite of tranquility was truly cruel. She glanced at Leliana who gave a solemn nod in return. “Go to the forward camp, I will take him to the rift.”

“I do not understand. Why am I here?” Connor asked. He made no move to resist as Cassandra knelt to unclasp the irons from his wrists, though swayed dangerously on his feet as the two of them rose to stand. She placed a hand under his arm as she led him outside with a deep and heavy sigh. 

“Come. It will be easier to show you,” she replied, pushing open the doors to Haven’s Chantry, ready to face the hole in the sky that threatened to swallow them all. 

They traveled quickly, Cassandra explaining what happened as they marched forward, ignoring the cries of soldiers and common folk alike that demanded justice for the death of the Divine. Connor seemed to struggle to keep up beside her, and she slowed slightly. She felt bad for the prisoner, in a way, but there was no time to linger on the thought when air around them shifted and shattered with a splitting crack, sending them reeling into a ravine.

Demons had emerged from where the ground had been charred by foul energy, one now baring it’s claws at her. With a shout to stay back, Cassandra strode forward, sword and shield drawn. At a time where everything was at stake, she could not afford to falter. As she fought, she heard sound of combat behind her as well, driving her to fight harder as she thought of what it might mean if the prisoner died now. She made short work of the demons, and turned back to Connor with fury in her eyes, sword still raised. He battered a screeching creature aside with his shield, then skewered it in a smooth, practiced motion, the faintest blue shimmer emanating from his sword as it pierced through the rotting flesh.

“Drop your weapon.  _ Now, _ ” Cassandra demanded, her voice tight with inexplicable fury as she prepared herself for another attack.

He complied without hesitation, however, letting the steel fall to the ice with a loud clang. She couldn’t figure out why she was so angry with him. If he hadn’t fought, then he might well be dead, and he certainly posed no threat to her in his tranquil state.

“I am experienced fighting demons, and thought my abilities might prove useful. I did not mean to cause you alarm.” 

The seeker eyed him wearily. She did not need to ask where he had trained. She could feel the lyrium in his blood, and she had seen the armor that had been peeled off of his unconscious form when the soldiers brought him back to Haven barely alive. 

“You are a templar.” It wasn’t a question, but the statement was laced with curiosity. “I didn’t think that they would allow a- someone such as you to join their ranks,” she corrected herself hastily. She knew that he would take no offense, but it still felt wrong to call him a mage.

“I was raised in the Order, and have only been in this state briefly. Magic is not something I am familiar with,” he replied, tilting his head to the side slightly as if to contemplate the intention behind such a statement. “We can discuss the topic at a later time, if required.” 

Though Connor didn’t say it outright, it was clear that he considered the breach a much more pressing matter than where he had come from or how. Cassandra couldn’t help but agree and didn’t question further. That would be Leliana’s job, if they made it out of this alive. She sheathed her sword and gestured to the one that she had ordered him to cast aside.

“Take it. I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless. We are on our own, for now.” 

Connor silently picked the weapon up and placed it upon his hip before they continued down the frozen river towards the sound of more fighting. Cassandra cast a wayward glance back at the prisoner. It was hard to imagine that this man was truly guilty, as she had suspected earlier. Tranquil did not act of their own accord, perhaps he was the killer, but not of any machinations of his own. It was difficult to consider what might happen at his trial — he would be sentenced to death if he was guilty, but it seemed like senseless violence to kill a man with no incentive. She turned to face him again.

“The people have decided your guilt, but you are our only lead to close the breach. I must know… Were you truly sent to kill Divine Justinia?”

“No,” he replied plainly. “I attended the conclave to support my Knight-Commander in aiding with the peace talks. He supported peace between mages and templars. The destruction of the Conclave is unfortunate, it would have served us no purpose to kill the Divine.”

“I wonder if others will believe your innocence,” Cassandra mused aloud. “But never mind that now. You can hear them fighting, we’re getting close to the rift.”

* * *

The first rift was a terrifying experience for all parties involved, but not just because of the demons. 

“He is tranquil, I do not understand what is happening!” Cassandra shouted, casting the corpse of a demon off of her blade just in time to defend herself from another.

“I believe the physical proximity to the fade has restored some of his emotional facilities,” Solas called back. His voice was balanced and controlled, cutting clear through the din of combat. 

“Well, looks like ‘ _ some’  _ have him screaming bloody murder. Tranquil don’t just _ do _ that,” Varric added with a grunt as he loaded another bolt into his crossbow, firing it point blank as a demon nearly descended upon him. The creature died with a disgusting gurgle. 

Across the ruins from them, Connor’s face was twisted into something between a snarl and a sob as he pulverized the living daylights out of a shade with his bare fists. He felt himself screaming, tears streaming down his face, but he couldn’t stop the flood of emotion… Not that he wanted to.

_ Everyone at the Conclave was dead. _

It hit him as soon as he and Cassandra dropped down to help the elf and dwarf, and now the realization drowned everything else out, save for the crackling of energy still pouring out of the sky above him, fueling his endless anger and fear and sorrow. He only vaguely felt the pain of his knuckles splitting as they repeatedly connected with the monster before him, or the scrape of his knees as he collapsed to the cobblestone, the creature dead. He continued howling in distress, clutching his chest, pressing his forehead to the ground. Images flashed through his vision: Wyston, smiling at him kindly, urging him forward, always supportive, always understanding. Evelyn, surprised, sad, a single tear falling as she brushed her hands across the brand that marked her dear twin brother. The men that were lead to what was supposed to be peace, the mages that relied on his protection... All of them, gone. 

Cassandra was shouting, but her voice sounded distant through the ringing in his ears. Connor struggled to grasp her words, trying to focus, but everything seemed to be slipping just out of reach, thrown into the turmoil and chaos that threatened his sanity. It was finally Solas who strode forward with measured steps, calm and composed, and grabbed his hand with the mark. Connor jerked his head up in surprise as it was thrust towards the sky, and he could feel the energy and emotion and hurt all drain away into the fade beyond. All four of them remained silent and still, the resonant hum from the closed rift hanging in the air.

“My apologies. My actions were uncalled for — I do not know what came over me,” Connor said, sitting up and mechanically wiping the tears away to clear his vision. Cassandra and Varric could not help but continue staring.

“There is no need. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct,” Solas finally explained, watching him curiously. “Though, I did not expect you to have such a reaction to being so close.”

Connor stood and glanced down at his blood-splattered clothes, then to his hand, then back up at the elf. “I was unaware that it would possess such an ability,” he remarked. “It has caused me much discomfort, so it is good to know that it has use.”

“Are we just going to ignore that entire thing that just happened?” Varric interjected, arms crossed as he approached them. “Or are we just accepting the fact that tranquil scream at things now? I’d rather keep the weird shit to demons falling out of the sky.” 

“As I said before, I believe the rift may have temporarily restored his connection to the fade, and such, his emotions. Imagine — you have been cut off from all feeling for an indefinite amount of time, then suddenly immersed into the chaos of a breach that threatens the world, of which you are the only one able to close. That would be quite the cause for some emotional distress, don’t you agree?” Solas replied. Varric opened his mouth to respond, only to be cut off by Cassandra. 

“So, it can close the breach?” she asked, finally rejoining the group after hunting down Connor’s sword among the debris.

“Possibly,” Solas shrugged, “but you should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have ever seen. We must hurry, before the mark consumes him,” Solas added, then turned to Connor. “Though I kept that mark at bay while you slept, healing magic and minor wards are no longer able to help you.”

“Thank you. I would be of no use if I was dead,” Connor replied. Solas gave a terse smile.

“That most certainly is true.” He turned quickly on his heel, seemingly eager to put as much space as possible between them. Cassandra had already scouted out a path down the nearby riverbank and was heading off.

“Seems like kind of a big risk, taking someone that’s basically a demon-magnet to a giant hole in the sky that _demons_ _are pouring out of,_ but if it means we won’t be ass-deep in them forever, fine by me,” Varric grumbled. He hefted his crossbow over his shoulder and gave Connor a sort of half-shrug before following the Seeker, leaving to Connor to trail behind in silence.

* * *

Cullen wiped the ichor from his blade with a grunt, surveying the battlefield. Cassandra had arrived just in time to spare the bulk of the troops from the onslaught of demons, but he cursed himself for not doing better without her aid. He felt uncomfortable fighting with the burden of the cloth draped around his shoulders, and what it symbolized he was fighting without. 

“Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the rift? Well done.” Cullen approached the small group that had formed and sheathed his blade. Cassandra shook her head and gestured aside.

“Do not congratulate me, Commander. This was the prisoner’s doing,” she corrected him, pulling Connor to his feet with a grunt of effort. He seemed notably out-of breath and seemed to move with great difficulty.

“Is it?” The commander glanced at the man before him, but Connor didn’t seem to entirely register. His eyes were unfocused, and he staggered forward into Cullen. 

“My apologies, knight-commander,” he managed between strained breaths, trying to remain upright. Even through his breathlessness, his emotionless voice sent a chill down Cullen’s spine. That monotonous tone was unmistakable, and even though it was obvious that he was struggling to remain upright, Connor’s expression was unfeeling and distant. Cullen looked to Cassandra again with disbelief, looking for an explanation, and she nodded to confirm his suspicions.  _ Tranquil. _ He stifled a groan as he realized the weight of what it meant that the single person that had a chance of saving them all was tranquil. 

“Maker, I-” he started, but didn’t get a chance to say anything else before Conner stumbled again. Cassandra braced herself as the rather large man fell into her, and he mumbled something incoherent.

“Commander, do you have any lyrium with you?” Cassandra asked hastily before pausing, giving Cullen a thoughtful look. There was something off about her expression that he couldn't quite put a finger on. “The prisoner is...”

Cullen didn’t quite hear her finish, but knew exactly what she was asking. He fished through his armor briefly before pulling out a small box and vial and handing it to the seeker. She nodded as she handed it to Connor, and Cullen turned away, swallowing hard as the vial opened with a distinct and satisfying pop. 

He waited in uneasy silence as Connor measured out the lyrium with a shaky but practiced hand. Seconds stretched into an eternity as Cullen shifted from foot to foot, trying to distract himself. He had nearly succeeded when Connor re-entered his field of vision, and Cullen couldn’t help but stare, trying to place him. It was hard to focus on the man’s features with the bright brand of the Chantry staring back at him. 

“I am from the Ostwick circle,” Connor offered, as if reading his mind. Cullen wasn’t sure if the man’s placidly somber expression was a refreshing change of pace or more unsettling than the usual faintly-pleasant smile of most tranquil. “I was sent with a squad to Kirkwall as temporary aid after the explosion,” he continued. Cullen winced slightly at the reminder - or was it at the fact he was looking at a fellow ex-templar that had been _ made tranquil? _ He was confused by the notion of it, and continued to stare, his eyes fixated on the brand.

“Knight-Captain Trevelyan,” Cullen sighed, finally placing the face. It was a strange and unsettling feeling, looking into the empty shell of a man who was once full of vigor and easily commanded respect and admiration from his peers. At one time, Cullen might have said that he and Connor were similar - that looking at Connor felt like looking in the mirror at his younger self, full of enthusiasm and loyalty to the order. An ironic thought now, the two of them shadows of their former lives. He had the urge to laugh at the cruel hand fate had dealt them as exhaustion settled into his bones. He felt as if he could suddenly relate to the emptiness in Connor’s eyes. 

“No longer. As you can see, I am tranquil now. Thank you for the lyrium, knight-commander, I was beginning to experience the ill-effects of going too long without.”

Cullen waved off the thanks, muttering something about how he didn’t need it anyway as he left to help an injured soldier. He didn’t think he could handle much more of the scant conversation and the inordinate amount of discomfort Connor’s company offered.

“Leliana will meet us up ahead, we’d best move quickly,” Cassandra urged, pointing at the ruins before them. There was a ledge that the party jumped off of to reach their destination, and as Connor’s feet hit the scorched ground, he shuddered as the power of Breach surged over him.   


They had reached the Temple of Sacred Ashes. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was so hot and so cold at the same time. The stench of death was heavy in the air, and corpses littered the ground. Connor could feel the heavy foreign magic course through his whole body, mixing with the lyrium there — it made him nauseous. It was like a bad dream, the fade swirling out of the sickly green hole in the sky, permeating everything, overwhelming, overbearing. He could hear himself shouting, sobbing, flooded with emotions of loss that he couldn’t bear. He was on the ground, gasping for breath, but unable to tear his eyes away from the sky that was torn asunder. _Maker, help me_ , he wanted to yell, but was unable to form the words.

“We must get to the breach,” Cassandra urged, moving to grab him. Solas held out his hand, watching with academic interest. 

“Give him a moment.” 

“Chuckles, we don’t _have_ a moment,” Varric protested as well, moving around Solas and grasping Connor’s arm. He was unmovable, eyes fixed on the Breach. “Come on kid, pull yourself together,” the dwarf tried again, placing himself directly in front of Connor’s face and grasping both of his shoulders. “Just breathe.”

Connor took a long, shaky breath and squeezed his eyes shut. When they opened again, Varric was caught off guard. The man who was just trembling and blubbering like a child now had a steely expression — one of pain and fury and single-minded determination. Varric scrambled to get out of the way as Connor rose. He was still shaking, but the way his eyes glimmered with life and freshly spilled tears and pure anger was both terrifying and awe inspiring. Varric made a mental note to use that in his next book. 

“I will end this.” Connor’s once monotonous drone was now brimming with fury, and he gripped the hilt of his blade until his knuckles were white. He felt _alive._ His whole body felt like it was vibrating with anticipation as he honed in on his new goal. He had to do something to make things right again. He _had_ to close the breach. 

They met with Leliana briefly to discuss a plan, and began to make their way into the heart of the temple. Spires of red lyrium towered over them now. Varric turned to Cassandra with a look of bewilderment.

“This stuff is red lyrium, Seeker,” he hissed, eyes narrowing as he carefully maneuvered around a crystal twice his size. Connor was ahead of him, staring. It was like the lyrium he knew, but it felt wrong… stronger, darker, louder. It felt like it was calling to him, its corrupted lull cutting through the fog of his mind, through the hum of the lyrium in his blood. He felt himself reaching out to it. He _needed_ it. 

“Hey kid, don’t touch that!” Varric shouted, snapping Connor from the strange trance. He recoiled and pulled his hand back suddenly. “This crap is evil,” the dwarf continued, pulling Connor away from it and leading him back down the rubble.

“Why is it here?” Connor whispered in awed terror. The image of Meredith flashed through his memory — frozen in the square of the Gallows in Kirkwall as a statue of red. He shuddered at the thought. 

“It could be the remnants of whatever lyrium lay beneath the temple,” Solas answered, picking his way through to follow their path. “Whatever magic opened the Breach could have drawn upon it, corrupted it…”

Out of the fade swirled visions of what had occurred at the Conclave moments the temple’s explosion. Clusters of mages and templars drifted in and out of reality as the party swiftly moved towards the breach. A dwarf skirted by them swearing, and ran straight through Varric, who shuddered as a chill settled into his bones.

“What the-” he started, glancing around with a look of bewilderment. He gripped the handle of Bianca tightly. “Does the weird shit ever end?”

“The fade bleeds into this place,” Solas remarked, following Connor at a distance as they moved further into the depths of the ruins. 

“The breach can do this? Is this real?” Cassandra asked as she reached out to one of the clustered groups. Her hand passed through a mage in enchanter’s robes as the figure shimmered and vanished, only the vague form of a spirit left in it’s wake. She sighed in a way that could have been mistaken for wistful before clenching her empty hand into a fist and returning it to her side. 

“They are echoes of what happened here — visions of the past, brought through the rift,” Solas continued explaining. Connor glanced around in shock.

“All these people, dead,” he murmured to himself. He felt the tears flowing freely from his eyes as he was hit with a new wave of grief, but he willed his body to move forward despite his now audible crying. His vision was blurred, but he kept his eyes on the tear in the sky. It allowed him to focus on one thing, something tangible in a sea of overwhelming thoughts. Just when he thought he had a bit of control of his emotions, fear gripped him as a deep voice reverberated through the stone, echoing in a way that made it seem to come from all around. 

_“Now is the hour of our victory.”_

_“What is going on here?”_

Connor froze in sheer terror at the scene now playing before them, cast in an eerie green haze. It was him, standing before some kind of blood ritual, a placid expression across his features, voice emotionless, as if he had stumbled upon a mere curiosity rather than the murder of the Divine. He shuddered looking at himself. It was unsettling. He never felt comfortable around tranquil before, and the fact he had been smothered in that silence just moments before…. 

A different type of fear tore his attention away from the scene playing from the fade. This was a fear of the dream-like state he had been living in, with nothing to discern sleep from waking, and no true purpose but to live and serve. He couldn’t go back to that. He felt his stomach twist in anxiety — he was himself now, but how long would it last? It had come and gone a few times now, each time harder and harder to bear going back to that unperturbed, forced calm. He let out a wail and sunk to his knees again, pressing his unarmored hand to the brand that kept him trapped. 

_“What is going on here?”_

Another voice emanated from the rift, but it wasn’t Connor’s. It was full of emotion and fury. His head whipped back up the vision, hoping to see who it belonged to. It was so _familiar,_ but he still only saw himself, who also turned to look at the person out of sight. 

“ _Run while you can! Warn them!”_

A third voice now. This one drew a rise from Cassandra, who turned to look at Connor with a mix of disbelief and confusion. 

“Most Holy called out to you… You _were_ there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she-”

“I don’t remember!” Connor cried out. He felt like he was drowning, and forced himself to breathe through the crushing pressure of what they were witnessing. Why couldn’t he remember? He was in the midst of grappling with his memories when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Solas stood at his side now, eyes fixed on the massive rift before them.

“Our main concern now is the rift. It is only closed temporarily. With the power of the mark, I believe it can be opened, and then sealed again properly and safely. This rift was the first — it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.” Solas removed his hand from Connor and shifted his staff in his grip. “However, it will certainly draw attention from the other side. Focus on defeating the demons that come through. Do not let yourself be distracted. And it would be best if you did not die,” he gave the faintest hint of a smile. Connor nodded. Kill demons. Right, he could do that. The memories would have to wait.

“Stand ready!” Cassandra called, as he raised his hand to the rift. It was like he could feel the tear in the veil, a jagged scar that had haphazardly been stitched closed, still raw and allowing the fade to seep into reality. He grasped at the thread that held it precariously together, and pulled. 

There was a deafening roar, and Connor raised his sword in reply. 

* * *

With all of his roiling emotions, Solas couldn’t help but wonder — where was Connor’s magic? The man must have been made tranquil for a reason. Usually, that reason was something absolutely absurd and purely an aggressive show of power on the side of the templars, but even so, he had to have been a mage. If Solas was sure of anything, a mage with a sudden re-connection to the fade would surely have lost at least some control over their power, if not all of it. Sometimes he caught glimpses, just the slightest pulls of the fade when Connor’s shout echoed through the entire ruins to call the demon’s attention away from the archers, or how his shield seemed to turn blows that knocked even Cassandra off her feet. 

“It is peculiar, no?” A calm Orlesian lilt echoed his thoughts, and he turned to see Leliana nock an arrow as she surveyed the battle. “I have seen a mage after they were restored from tranquility. The emotional overload is not surprising, but it is strange that, even in the thick of combat, he has yet to use any magic.”

Solas nodded as he erected a barrier around the two of them. A shade had found their position, and Leliana loosed three arrows in quick succession as he ended it’s brief existence with a barrage of ice.

“Perhaps his connection to the fade has yet to truly be restored, and thus not strong enough to cast. It has only been temporary so far, and only in connection to the rifts.” He looked back at the thick of the battle, where Connor and Cassandra traded turns calling the pride demon’s attention between them, and Connor would occasionally turn his hand to the rift, green light spilling from his open palm and draining into the tear. 

“The mark on his hand… is it some kind of indication of the extent of his ability?” Leliana asked. Solas knew immediately that she was trying to gauge the prisoner — how big of a threat he might prove to be, what kind of precautions she would need to take, how to best utilize him — and was almost impressed. He wondered where he was filed away in the list of ‘apostate threats’ in her mind.

“No, I don’t believe it is. The mark seems to be separate from whatever ability he might possess… Regardless, it is difficult to imagine anyone having such power,” he replied cautiously. He tried to read her expression to see if she believed him, but could glean nothing from her well-guarded, calm countenance.

“Thank you for your assistance, Solas,” she replied, turning to regard him with faint curiosity. “One wonders what might have happened if you did not approach us when you did.”

Solas was about to open his mouth in response when he was interrupted by a cry of victory. He and Leliana turned to see the remains of the huge demon dissipating back into the fade, and he could feel the veil mending itself as Connor poured the power from the mark back into it. There was silence that seemed to stretch an eternity, followed by an eruption of cheers from the soldiers that had survived the ordeal. The relief in the air was palpable, but even from the distance he stood, Solas could see Connor shaking with silent sobs as Cassandra rushed forward to his side to catch him as he fell unconscious. 

Solas looked to the sky where the green wound still swirled. There was much work to be done yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the brevity of this chapter! There is a lot going on in the world right now, and I just wanted to get something posted. Take care of yourselves, and thank you for reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

Word spread quickly. Those at Haven had all knew of the sole survivor that was the Maker’s chosen, rumors of how he walked out of the breach in shining templar armor, delivered by Andraste herself. The scouts that survived fighting the pride demon shared storied of how he miraculously sealed the rift at the temple and that he was called for help by Divine Justinia herself. He was the perfect savior, a beacon of hope and faith and everything the world needed at the moment they needed him most. 

And now, people were beginning to arrive from the Hinterlands with more tales of how the Herald of Andraste had closed rifts before their very eyes, slaying demons with a sure hand. There was talk of his deeds helping refugees, saving them from the war between the rebels, helping provide food and shelter, setting up patrols and directing soldiers to send more aid. Connor was blessed, a quiet in the storm, with otherworldly calm in a world gone wrong. 

Beneath all of that, however, there were whispers of how this so called “Herald” was a blasphemous lie. He was a mage, a tranquil, and a fake, sent to fool them all into blindly following a new rising rebellion, they said. There were hushed discussions of how he was delusional and a mad man, driven insane by the very rifts he closed. Those were what brought the advisers to the war room.

“We cannot _lie_ to the public about his tranquility,” Cassandra said, her palms flat on the table. Across from her, Leliana paced back and forth, arms crossed. 

“We do not have to lie, but it would be better if we did not announce it. I have already made sure those who know will remain quiet, and the majority of those that have joined our cause have no reason to believe he is anything other than the templar he appears.”

“While I agree that he people would be far less willing to trust an organization led by a mage, tranquil or not, it would be difficult to deny the truth. We do not need to tell those that it does not concern.” Josephine added. Cassandra gave Cullen an exasperated look. 

“And you, Commander?”

Cullen looked disgruntled and clearly uncomfortable with the topic as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 

“I don’t like the idea of lying, but confirming it would be bad for moral,” he finally sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Besides, I’m more concerned with _why_ he’s tranquil. He’s a templar, or used to be at least. Leliana, surely you’ve found _something._ ”

“Of course,” she replied smoothly. “Templars are surprisingly easy to keep track of, thankfully, and it helps they you already knew him.” 

“Connor Trevelyan, youngest of the noble house in Ostwick,” Josephine announced, flipping to a page in the notes she always carried. “As the youngest of such a pious family, he was promised to the Order at a young age. His name carries a surprising amount of influence in the Chantry.”

“He was Knight-Captain of the Ostwick circle when it fell. The circle is empty now, but we have found some interesting information,” Leliana added, procuring a small leather-bound notebook. It was simple, with the Chantry sunburst stamped into the worn cover. She set it on the table and flipped it open to reveal numerous dated entries written in a small, tidy hand. “What he told Cassandra was true, he has not been tranquil long. He seems to have had some latent magical ability, but even he did not understand what it entailed. He volunteered himself to the rite mere months before the Conclave.” 

“But how? _Why?_ ” Cullen pressed, quickly scanning the pages. Leliana pushed the journal closer to the Commander so he could read it himself. 

“From what we have seen, he may not be tranquil much longer,” she continued, largely ignoring Cullen’s inquiry. “We have no way of knowing what effects the mark will have on him. Solas has been looking for answers as well, but has found nothing conclusive. The Herald still has no magic of his own, but we should prepared nonetheless, if the rifts have been any indication.” 

The room fell silent as they recalled the horrific outbursts that occurred at every rift Connor had approached. Cassandra had seen the worst of it as they traveled through the Hinterlands together. It was maddening to watch as this man, stoic and somber and quiet, transform into a real person that laughed and cried and shouted with abandon as the fade flooded his emotions. It made him human, and it made it worse every time he reverted back to his tranquil state. Varric and Solas stayed further and further back every time they approached a new rift. Most recently, as the rift snapped shut, Connor had grasped Cassandra’s shoulders as he collapsed to his knees sobbing.

_“Maker, please, just end this, I can’t stand the silence anymore. Please, Andraste help me, I-”_

He never finished the sentence, and with a shuddering breath he was tranquil again. His stormy grey eyes, usually cold and distant, suddenly brimming with tears and life as he begged Cassandra to help him, haunted her. She snapped back to the present as Josephine spoke again.

“Regardless, when he goes to Val Royeaux, we will not be able to change what the people see. The Chantry will know he is tranquil, and what the people think of that is outside of our control. We will hope that they see reason in our cause, enough to look past their biases.”

“I still can’t believe we’re sending him to the Clerics. It just lends credence to the idea that we should care what the Chantry says,” Cullen grumbled. Leliana shot him a unpleasant look.

“We have no other option. We have discussed this and it would be a waste of time to argue it further. Cassandra, you and the Herald should prepare to leave tomorrow.”

* * *

Cullen swiped his hand through his hair to brush off the snowflakes that had gathered as he glanced across the meager troops under his command. Haven was small, and the new recruits were mostly made of refugees, but it was something. He caught a glimpse of their new Herald patrolling through the snow, templar armor gleaming immaculately and mended almost perfectly in a way only tranquil had the patience for. He grimaced slightly. The man was a stark reminder of all of Cullen’s failures, as if his past refused to let him move forward. Every time he was beginning to focus more on his new responsibilities with the Inquisition, Connor was there, heraldry bright upon his breastplate. He looked down at the Blade of Mercy that adorned his own armor and sighed.

It wasn’t really Connor’s fault. Leliana had new armor made at Josephine's request. They had decided it would be best to separate the Herald from any immediate connection to the rebelling templars. Even though Harriet put a lot of effort into it, they all knew that nothing the fledgling Inquisition could offer would match the protection of fine-tuned armor. Connor had at least humored them somewhat by wearing it once into the Hinterlands.

 _This armor is not suitable for my needs,_ he had said, _but I will wear it if you insist._

It was almost comical when he returned the armor shortly after — it had been promptly shredded by a bear. When he was seen next, he was back in his templar regalia. No one tried very hard to stop him this time.

Cullen returned his attention to the pages before him. Leliana had let him hang onto the little brown journal they had found in Ostwick, detailing Connor’s time there. It was so familiar - the leather bound pages with the single stamp of the Chantry looked similar to one he had kept at his time in Kirkwall, and the scent of lyrium clung to the soft vellum. It felt kind of like home, but the words on the page were enough to turn that feeling to distinct unease. 

_As a mage, I cannot be a templar, but as a tranquil, I can at least still be of use. I can wield a sword and take orders without the need for emotions._

Cullen mouthed the words as he read them, and it felt wrong. He still struggled to see magic and mages in any sort of positive light. It was so easy to discredit them, blame them for everything wrong in his past… But Connor was a templar, not a mage. He was just a templar with very, very, bad luck. Cullen let out a short, harsh laugh. That was a sorry attempt at an excuse to justify the hate he still struggled to control, and he knew it. What if Connor hadn’t been a templar? It would still be an unfortunate situation to have the fate of the world in the hands of someone who had no emotional stake in the outcome. Cullen tried to imagine what would have happened if Hawke was tranquil, and it was a chilling thought. 

“Damn that blasted rite,” he cursed under his breath. 

He glanced back down at the neat handwriting and tried to think of what he might have done in Connor’s place, but failed. Even to the bitter end, Connor fought tooth and nail to protect the mages under his charge, even though it cost him his entire life and personality, and once again felt his own past bearing down on him heavily. 

“Commander.”

The low, monotonous voice startled Cullen out of his thoughts. 

“Herald, I didn’t hear you approach. My apologies,” he stammered, quickly snapping the journal shut and shoving it in his coat. If Connor saw it, he said nothing. “How can I help you?”

“I came to discuss obtaining a lyrium supply for the days I will be in Val Royeaux,” Connor replied. Cullen always found himself jarred by the stark contrast the the Herald presented. He carried himself like a seasoned veteran, always stern and standing at full height, but he had the soft face of a young man. It seemed unmarred by battle aside from a solitary scar that stretched long and jagged along his left cheekbone, and was permanently fixed into a neutral, stoic expression. It would be easy to believe that he was just a quiet young soldier with little to say and even less to find amusement in, until he spoke in that unmistakable done that marked him as tranquil. “If you are busy, however, I can return at a later time.”

“No, I’m not doing anything of importance,” Cullen shifted from where he had been hunched over a table, carefully trying to push the journal deeper into his coat pockets. Even though he knew Connor wouldn’t have any kind of particular opinion on it, having the journal still felt like and intrusion of privacy and it would be awfully awkward to have to explain how his it ended up in Cullen’s possession. Unfortunately, that seemed to be what fate had in store as the small book tumbled to the ground and landed squarely at Connor’s feet. Cullen froze, waiting for the response. Connor picked it up and turned it over clinically in his hands before looking back at Cullen.

“If you have questions of my command in Ostwick, I can recall those times, if you wish.”

“I…” Cullen felt trapped. He knew it would be easy to just say no, and Connor would leave without question, but there was so much he wanted to know. “I was recruited to the Inquisition from Kirkwall, myself,” he said lamely, cursing his awkwardness and inability to just get to the point. “Cassandra sought a solution after the Chantry lost control of the templars and the mages. I left the templars to join her cause, but I…” He paused, considering where he was going with this. “I do not regret leaving the Order. The Inquisition can act when the Chantry cannot, but I still… have difficulties with our new reality. It is not easy to forget what happens when order is lost and action comes too late. I wonder if you might share the same struggles,” he sighed, casting his gaze to the ground. He hoped he had made his point clear without being too forward.

“Commander, I am incapable of feeling remorse or emotional conflict.”

“Ah.” Cullen ran his hand through his hair, feeling more foolish than before.

“It is unfortunate that the circles fell and that the Order is scattered, it has resulted in many unnecessary deaths.” Connor continued. His eyes seemed to stare straight into Cullen, and he looked away. “However, the Chantry did not lose control of the templars and the mages, it drove them to fear each other. The enemy is not magic, but the corruption and pride of men.”

“Even so, mages cannot be allowed to go through our camp unchecked,” Cullen protested. “I was in Kirkwall during the mage uprising - I saw firsthand the devastation it caused.”

“When driven into a corner, even the most timid will strike back. We once took the measures we did as templars because of the fear that Chantry instilled in us. Mages are the Maker’s children as much as anyone. Who are templars to decide their fate, controlled by pride and corruption as the Order was?”

Cullen thought about that for a moment, back to Kirkwall and Meredith and the mages that suffered at his hands. Connor spoke blandly as if he were reading from a script, reciting a memorized speech with no interest, but he made a point that Cullen couldn’t argue with. 

“Do you think, if things were different, you would have been able to look past that fear?” He asked, finally meeting Connor’s expressionless gaze.

“I cannot say. I believe it is best to be useful, and so I am here. I will continue my duty of sealing rifts until it is no longer necessary. It is futile to dwell on possibilities of the past, since they are no longer relevant to the present.”

The two of them stood in silence, the snow gently falling around them. Cullen spoke again after clearing his throat, lowering his voice as if he were afraid of others overhearing.

“Did you ever… Make mages tranquil? Don’t you worry about what might happen if we invite mages here? You know the risks, Herald. We were templars, we know what they are capable of — what they can become.”

“Yes. I made mages tranquil.” Connor, unlike Cullen, did not lower his voice. “It was not a decision to be taken lightly. I administered the rite only to those that subjected themselves to it. I once related to the mages that feared their own magic, and thus chose this for myself as well. I am unable to feel regret, Commander, and though I cannot say that I understand the plight the mages have been through, I have experienced difficulties at the hands of the rebel templars that might cause me to experience feelings of discomfort should I be made whole again. It is reasonable that mages would choose death or possession over the alternative.” Connor paused, and Cullen wondered what could have possibly happened to him between leaving Ostwick and arriving at the Conclave. He almost asked, but thought better of it — he wasn’t sure if he could handle whatever Connor might tell him. No, Cullen wasn’t sure if he wanted to know at all.

“If we invite more mages here, it will be with transparency. They should not be treated like prisoners if they willingly join our cause,” Connor continued. “We are no longer templars, but mages have every right and reason to be weary of us. We were templars, Commander. We know what we are capable of as well, and what we can become. It would be in our best interest to avoid succumbing to such cruelty and fear.” 

“I-” Cullen spoke to defend himself again, but decided against it. There would be no point in arguing with a tranquil’s unwavering commitment to their own logic, and even less validity in arguing with the Herald if he valued his position with the Inquisition.

“However, I will not ally with the mages without consideration, Commander. I will meet with the Chantry in Val Royeaux first. Neither the mages nor the templars will speak with us yet.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a shout and the wave of a spell purge. The residual hum of lyrium invoked power was unmistakable and gave Cullen an immediate headache as he and Connor quickly made their way to its source. 

A mob had formed outside of the Chantry, with mages and former templars making up the majority of it. A few Chantry sisters were fleeing the scene as the shouting increased in volume. 

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!”

“Lies — your kind let her die. If you monsters had never ruined the Herald, she would still be here now! He could have saved her!”

“Shut your mouth, mage!”

The soldier reached for his sword, and Cullen dashed ahead to place himself between the feuding sides, the blade glancing off his vambrace as he deflected the blow.

“Knight-Captain!” the man cried out incredulously. Cullen shot him a look somewhere between exasperation and anger before catching a glimpse of Connor out of the corner of his eye. The Herald watched him in silence, as if waiting to see how he would handle the situation. The relative peace that had been kept so far now balanced precariously on his response as he felt the building tension of the mages’ and templars’ barely contained fury. “That is not my title. We are _not_ templars any longer,” he growled, forcing the soldier and mage further apart and standing at full height now. His steeled his gaze as he looked between the two offending parties, his stern expression daring anyone to challenge just how serious he was. “We are _all_ part of the Inquisition, and we _will_ work together. Now, back to your duties, all of you,” he ordered. There was a pause and a murmur spread through the crowd. Cullen internally breathed a sigh of relief as they slowly dispersed. Once only he and Connor remained, he spoke again.

“I hope things go well in Val Royeaux,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose to try and subdue the throbbing that had continued building behind his eyes.

“I will ensure they see reason,” was Connor’s short reply, and he left Cullen standing in front of the large wooden doors. The declaration of the Inquisition pinned there stared back at him as cold and quietly as it’s Herald had.

Cullen prayed that he could keep things under control in the meanwhile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter because I wrote this one in a rush! I started working two jobs again, so I wanted to get this out before I got too bogged down to finish it. Here we are folks, a burn so slow we probably won't be meeting the love interest until chapter 5 at the earliest - we love to see it.
> 
> -
> 
> If you're interested in Connor's journal, you can read it here on Ao3! Just hit that little "next work" button - his journal is the second chapter/Codex. Thanks again for reading!


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